“In the History books, they’ll call me a monster.” Cortana said. “Is that what I am, John? Am I a monster?” she said, dying. It was their last moment together, and even after all thise days it remained fresh in his mind.
The memorial ceremony was beatiful as ever. Two dozen soldiers standing idle, like statues, weapons armed and ready to fire. They stood in three perfect lines, behind the podium. The Admiral stood behind the podium and cleared his throat.
“You’re not a monster, Cortana.” John told her. There was nothing in the world but them, nothing but him and her. “You never were.”
Admiral Hood gave a rising speach, a speach about human determination, about winning against all odds, about the great victory that they had won against the Created and their Forerunner armies. Hood mentioned the new state of the Galaxy, the unity and collaboration with the other races, the forming of the New Covenant, a covenant based on life and peace rather than faith in a violent religion. He mentioned all those who gave their life in the war. It was a pretty speach for a pretty ceremony, and yet it rang hollow.
“I did what I thought was right. What I needed to do. For the Galaxy. For you.” Cortana said, holographic tears dripping down her cheeks, her body flashing red. The memory hurt him.
When the Admiral finished his speach, he saluted, and behind him the rows of soldiers raised their weapons, pointing them to the light blue cloudless morning sky. Twenty one guns fired in the air in perfect unison, in the memory of the lost. John felt as if the bullets struck him, but he held his posture.
He waited for the ceremony to disperse, for every man and woman to leave. It took an hour till the memorial site emptied, and even then John wasn’t alone. Admiral Hood sat next to him, wearing a solemn face. “Admiral,” John said.
“John,” Hood called him. It was odd, as they would usually say simply 117 or Master Chief. He would have to get used to it.
After a long moment of silence, Hood spoke. “I’ve seen your letter. I had them read it to me personally.” Hood said. “I’ve got to admit, I never expected you to offer your resignation. I thought that ny successor would have to fire you himself, when you were a sick old man.”
“I never thought I would resign, either.” John said.
“Life always manages to surprise us, doesn’t it?” he asked, sitting up.
“Admiral,” Chief saluted him.
“Please, call me Terrence.” Hood said. “Good luck, John. It was an honor serving with you.”
Chief nodded and looked down. Finally alone. He opened his palm, and inside there it was- Cortana’s chip, dangling from its chain, the chain of his dog tags. “I know, Cortana.” John told here as her image flickered at died. “You were never a monster… you’re only… Human.” When he finished the sentence, she was gone. The world cheered in her death, the world cheered and John was alone in his grief.
Hollow. Once, John believed there was nothing underneath his armor, certainly not a man. Today, he knew it was foolish of him. The shell of his armor was scratched and scarred, and inside it was a shrivled old man- tired and weary of war. He never imagined this moment would arrive. He always thought he would die in battle. But here it was.
John removed his helmet and sat it on the nearest chair. He breathed in the fresh morning air for the first time in a long, long while. Too long. He walked up behind the podium to the massive memorial statue- a statue showing a battle frozen in time. Stone marines twisting in pain, side by side with spartans, in battle with a Promethean Crawler. It was an impressive statue, and below it there was a holographic plate inscribed with hundreds of millions of names, always switching, always adapting.
Below the plate there were pictures of the lost, flowers and roses set by loved ones, letters and paintings, all drizzled with tears. There was a picture of Sarah Palmer with her family, a picture of Jameson Locke smiling, of Kelly and Linda and Fred. There were a thousand pictures of men and women he had never met, all gone. Jon knelt beside the statue, shutting his eyes to block the tears. But it was too late, by now there was salt water streaming down his cheeks.
John’s hand shook as he hanged the chain on side of the podium, Cortana’s chip falling from it. History would call Cortana a monster, but John 117 knew who she really was. And though her name would never be written with the hundreds and thousands who gave their life for this war, Jon knew he himself would remember. As Cortana’s chip blew in the wind, side by side with a hundred faces of the loved and the lost, John knew that even though the taste in his mouth spelled defeat, this would be his own little moment of victory.
Now it was time to mourn. Now it was time to live.